


Return to Reality

by justonelastdance



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Maedhros blames himself for some things that weren't his fault, Minor Violence, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, Suicide Attempt, described briefly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:53:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29292447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justonelastdance/pseuds/justonelastdance
Summary: Fingon has to convince Maedhros that he isn't an illusion and then face some horrors from Maedhros's time in Angband.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 22
Kudos: 63





	Return to Reality

Fingon smiles as he sits on the edge of Maedhros's bed. His heart flutters when Maedhros smiles back. It's progress, even if his eyes are still glassy. 

"How are you today?" Fingon asks.

"Fine." 

Fingon tries not to feel disappointed. He shouldn't be expecting an elaborate answer. Maedhros barely speaks, so this is better than nothing. 

Maedhros tilts his head, still smiling, then suddenly his left arm flies to Fingon, something clutched in the fist. Fingon hastily jumps back, falling from the bad, barely managing to evade the strike.

It's a clay shard, he notices during his fall. He doesn't know where Maedhros has found it, how long he's hidden it, how long he's been waiting for this moment. It was aimed right at the jugular. If Maedhros weren't so malnourished or if it were his right hand, Fingon would be bleeding out on the floor.

He raises his head and meets Maedhros's terrified look. A rivulet of blood trickles down his arm, frozen in midair. His hand jerks once, and Fingon suddenly understands what he's going to do. Before he can move, Fingon leaps on the bed and grabs Maedhros's fist just a second before he can slice his own throat.

Maedhros lets out a despairing scream through gritted teeth and tries to pull his arm away.

"Let go!" he cries.

"You let go!" Fingon answers.

He's still in shock, so he works almost on instinct when he pins Maedhros down and tries to pry his fingers open. His grip is surprisingly strong, and Fingon is afraid he will break Maedhros's fingers if he applies more force. Maedhros thrashes against his hold, the shard cutting deeper into his palm.

"Stop it," he begs, his chest heaving. "Please stop. Don't! Don't do it! Let me go! LET ME GO!"

"I will if you open your hand," Fingon says. "Russo, please, give it to me. You will hurt yourself."

Maedhros continues to twist and sob out pleas. Fingon closes his eyes for a moment, whispers an apology, and squeezes Maedhros's wrist. A cry of pain, and Maedhros's bloodstained fingers open. The shard falls on the ground.

Maedhros shakes his head and weeps bitterly. Fingon weeps with him, still afraid to release him.

"Let go," Maedhros repeats.

"Do you promise not to try to hurt yourself?" Fingon asks.

Maedhros stares at him with hopeless rage.

"Enough already, enough!" he cries. "What do you want? I've seen through it, I know this isn't real. Stop it! I can't, please. I can't-I can't—"

Fingon's heart is bleeding, but he doesn't try to convince Maedhros. He's sure he won't be heard. He just keeps holding him tightly, as Maedhros thrashes. He waits until slowly his cousin's struggles stop and he goes slack. Fingon lets go of his wrist and tries to move away, but Maedhros starts sobbing quietly into his chest and he freezes. Carefully, Fingon brings his hand to stroke Maedhros's hair. His eyes widen when Maedhros leans into the touch.

"All right, all right," he says quietly. "You won."

Before Fingon can ask what he means, Maedhros raises his head and presses his lips to Fingon's. 

"Is this what you want? You want me to pretend? All right. Let's do it. I will pretend to believe you if you keep pretending too. If you don't change back while we are fucking. Keep being Finno and I will pretend you really are him."

Fingon opens and closes his mouth. All words escape him. What can he say? What is he supposed to say to this? There is a distant whistling in his ears. He's shivering. He has to say something. Has to make it right.

"I—"

Maedhros kisses him and quickly breaks the kiss himself. His eyes fill with tears again.

"You even taste like him this time," he whispers. "Good job."

He tries to resume the kiss, but Fingon pushes him away and scrambles back. Maedhros looks at him, confused and a little hurt. Fingon turns away.

"I have to-have to—" He can't stay here. "I will find a healer for your hand," he says, picks up the clay shard and walks to the door.

"No!" Maedhros cries. "Come back! I'm sorry! I'm sorry, please! I-I want it! I _need_ it! What-what do you want me to say?"

Fingon slams the door and runs away. He wants to disappear, to be anywhere but here. He wants to leave and forget what Maedhros just said, what horrors his words implied. But he cannot. He can't worry his father again, can't leave Maedhros alone when he's still so feverish, when he's just tried to hurt himself.

He opens his palm. The shard of clay is there. He breaks it under his boot. Then he finds a healer and sends her to Maedhros. He goes to the lake and sits on the shore, looking at the water and thinking.

The sun is low when he stands. He has to go back to Maedhros. He has saved him from torture and death and he's not going to let him torture himself with doubts and try to kill himself.

Entering the room, he finds Maedhros sitting on the bed, supported by several pillows. His hand is bandaged. He takes a sharp breath when he sees Fingon, then with obvious effort forces himself to calm down and turn his gaze away.

"I'm sorry for running away," Fingon says, sitting on the chair by the bed. 

Maedhros takes a few deep breaths and raises his head, smiling that smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"I am glad you are back," he says.

"Do you still believe I'm not real?"

"Of course you are."

Fingon sighs in frustration. The way Maedhros speaks reminds him how in their grandfather's palace in Tirion his cousin would repeat the same polite phrases to dozens of nobles without even thinking.

"Stop it, Russo. Do you believe I am not Findekáno?"

"No, silly, I know you are."

Maedhros's smile widens, but it only makes it worse. _I will pretend if you keep pretending_ , he said. 

"Stop playing those games with me," Fingon says. "Tell me the truth."

Maedhros's fake smile disappears, his placid look is replaced by a desperate one. 

"What do you want?" he asks. "I-I don't understand. Is this a new game? Do you want me to pretend or not? Just tell me, please. Tell me what to do. I will do it."

"Russo, please," Fingon whispers. "This is real. I am real. You are not there. I don't need you to pretend. You are safe here. You don't have to play their games anymore." He runs his fingers through his hair. "What can I do to convince you this is real?"

Maedhros stares at him for a long moment.

"Kill me," he says.

Fingon recoils. "I can't do that."

Maedhros's shoulders slump. "Of course you can't. How could you get rid of your favorite toy?" He throws his head back on the pillows and closes his eyes. "Do what you will. I tried to play by your rules, but you make it impossible. I am tired."

It takes Fingon a few minutes to recover from the blow of his words. He moves to the bed and cautiously takes Maedhros's hand. Maedhros flinches, his whole body tense as a bowstring.

"I found you on the mountain," Fingon says quietly. "By the looks of it, you have been there for quite a long time. Why would they suddenly take you back?"

Maedhros doesn't answer, but by the slight furrowing of his brows, Fingon can tell he's thinking about it.

"I sang for you, a song from Valinor, from our childhood. The Moringotto never had any interest in the songs of elvish children. How would he know it?"

"He took it from my mind." Maedhros's breath hitches. "He took everything from me. I couldn't-couldn't stop it."

Fingon blinks back tears. "Well then, even if it is so, answer me this. Why would they create such an imperfect Findekáno for you?"

Maedhros opens his eyes. "What do you mean? You are perfect."

Fingon stands and starts removing his tunic. He hears Maedhros gasp and realizes his mistake. 

"I just want to show you something," he hurries to reassure him. "Here."

Low on his left side and hip, there are long scars, which used to be deep wounds. 

"Got these from a white bear," Fingon says, almost proudly. "I was lucky. I survived."

Maedhros looks at him, then at the scars with a mixture of dread, hope and confusion. He brings his trembling hand closer and traces the lines. Fingon shivers. Maedhros's touch burns him, fills his heart with desire and with sorrow and with love. 

"And if this isn't enough," he says when Maedhros pulls his hand back, "Remember the eagle. The flight. The Moringotto and his minions have no idea what it feels like to fly. Elves don't either, to be fair, but you and I do. Do you remember it, Russo?"

"Yes," Maedhros said hoarsely. "Finno... Is it-is it really you?"

"It is really me," Fingon says.

Instead of relief, there is horror in Maedhros's eyes. "I tried to kill you," he whispers.

"Oh, forget about that," Fingon says lightly. "You didn't know it was me. Besides, I doubt you could have killed me, even if you didn't miss. That shard wasn't even that sharp. You would have just grazed me." He hesitates for a moment, then continues in a more serious tone. "I am more worried about what you did after that."

"Oh." Maedhros's face is a blank mask. "I suppose I should tell you." 

He leans back on the pillows again. He doesn't look at Fingon when he speaks in a calm, monotonous voice. 

"The Moringotto has a lieutenant, a powerful Maia. He can shapeshift. And he enjoyed taking the shape of those I love. Enjoyed tormenting me so. He especially enjoyed shapeshifting into you when he... took me to his bed. I hated it. Sometimes I... Sometimes I pretended that I want it, so he would stop and change back. Sometimes, if he thought I enjoyed it too, that I wanted him to pretend to be you, he would stop."

He looks up at Fingon. "You are crying," he says.

Fingon hasn't even noticed the tears flowing down his cheeks. 

"He never cried when he was you," Maedhros murmurs. He looks at Fingon with wonder. "Can I please touch you?"

Fingon nods. Maedhros raises his hand to Fingon's face to wipe away his tears but pulls back at the last moment.

"No, I can't," he says. "I wasn't entirely truthful with you. But I should be, I should tell you, so you know who you are crying for. I... I didn't always hate it and I didn't always tell him I want it, so he would stop. Sometimes I truly wanted it, I truly wanted to pretend, truly craved his touch." 

He takes a shuddering breath. 

"There was so much pain. I didn't know anything but pain and pain and more pain. I suppose it amused him to offer me morsels of comfort, to see me struggle not to accept them, to see me give in, to see me forget my pride. He reveled in my humiliation. I rejected it at first, I tried-I tried, but there was nothing but pain, and his touch was so gentle, and he looked like you sometimes. He would stroke my hair, he would kiss me, on my lucky days he wouldn't even fuck me, he would just hold me, and I wanted it, I _wanted_ it, Finno. I begged him for it. I fought sometimes, I tried, I swear, but it was no use, I would still yield, he would still win, he always won. 

"I felt so-so... tainted afterward, I wanted to peel off my skin, but when the time came again, I still let myself enjoy it because it felt so good to be treated gently. I hated him so much for it, but when I was hanging from the mountain... I-I missed him."

He falls silent, staring at his hand. Fingon barely dares to breathe. He wants to throw up, wants to pull Maedhros into a hug, wants to curl up in Maedhros's lap and cry, wants to run away, wants to forget what he just heard.

Maedhros raises his head, and the suffering and resignation etched in his look squeeze all air out of Fingon's lungs.

"So if you truly are Finno," Maedhros says, "You will despise me."

"Is that what you think of me, Russandol?" Fingon says quietly, surprised that he was able to find his voice after all. "I thought you knew me better."

"I betrayed you," Maedhros says. "I am weak. I thought—" His voice breaks. "I thought I would never see you again, as though that's an excuse. Sometimes I couldn't bear to see him in your shape, I would fight, I swear to you, I did, but then I... I missed you so badly and wanted-wanted to feel something other than pain. I wasn't strong enough to resist, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry."

"Russo, I don't blame you," Fingon says. He takes Maedhros's bandaged hand again. "I can't imagine what you have been through and what you had to do to survive. On the Ice... we did things I could never believe we would do. And you were all alone, surrounded by evil. What right do I have to judge you for seeking a few moments of relief?"

Maedhros looks at him, his eyes shining. "Do you really think so?" 

"Of course," Fingon says. "What if those moments were what kept you alive, so you could come back to me?"

"Do you suggest I should thank the Moringotto's lieutenant?" Maedhros asks with a crooked smile.

"I will do it personally," Fingon says. "Do you think a sword to the heart would be enough?"

Maedhros laughs a little and leans his head against Fingon's shoulder. The conversation must have completely exhausted him. 

"I have no doubt now that you are truly my Finno," he says, slurring a little. "Your particular brand of foolhardiness can never be imitated."

Very carefully, Fingon puts an arm around him. A minute later, Maedhros is so fast asleep that he doesn't even stir as Fingon lowers him down, pulls up the covers and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear.


End file.
